The Last Word
by PenPistola
Summary: Arthur is tired of being second fiddle and decides to assert his dominance where he knows he'll win—in the bedroom.


**Title:** The Last Word  
**Pairing:** Arthur/Eames  
**Word Count:** 2642  
**Rating:** M  
**Summary:** Arthur is tired of being second fiddle and decides to assert his dominance where he knows he'll win—in the bedroom.

The problem with going from 'Cobb and Arthur' to 'Eames and Arthur' is that Arthur is still the second name. It doesn't matter how terrifying Arthur is, in reality or by reputation, or how sharply he dresses. It doesn't matter how many successful jobs he organizes and pulls off after Cobb retires. People hear 'Arthur' and think 'point man' and he's automatically relegated to second fiddle in the partnership.

Eames doesn't help.

Arthur and Eames are sitting in a meeting with clients who are well versed in the dream-sharing business and who _should_ know better than to direct all their questions to Eames, but they're doing it anyway. And Eames, damn him, is answering.

"No, it shouldn't be too difficult at all," Eames is saying, leaned forward in his chair and gesturing expressively in a way that Arthur probably wouldn't. Arthur thinks about butting in with the strategy he'd come up with, or alternately stomping his feet like a four-year-old and insisting that '_I am the extractor, goddammit!_' but instead he just nods supportively during Eames' clever and careful description of the job. Arthur gives a sigh when it's all over—he may be terrifyingly efficient and a damn good extractor, but perhaps there's some truth to Eames' argument that he's a better 'people person'.

The job goes well, of course, with a minimum of horrifying gunshot wounds and only one defenestration. The clients get their information (no, the rival CEO had _not_ been doing insider trading; he'd just gotten supremely lucky) and Arthur and Eames get their money. They all go to shake hands, and when their clients shake Eames' first, he tries not to grind his teeth so hard that they can hear it.

Eames is grinning a little ruefully when they get in the car to go back to their apartment. "Oh darling, I can feel the resentment coming off you in _waves_."

"Yes, well." If Eames had a modicum of tact, he might not have brought it up at all, but Arthur has long since gotten used to the way Eames operates. He can see the gears turning in Eames' head out of the corners of his eyes, but he doesn't allow himself to get too distracted—he'd like to stay on the road. Of course, things are different once they've stepped inside the apartment and put away their equipment.

"Com'ere," Eames says, grabbing Arthur by the lapels of his jacket and swinging him through their bedroom door. "I've got something that might cheer you up."

Arthur wants to keep true to character and stay mad, he really does. If he gives in, it'll make him look too easy, give Eames the idea that he can get away with whatever he wants as long as he makes it up with sex. And while that's necessarily true, Arthur doesn't want Eames to know that.

"Not now, Eames," he offers as a token resistance, but it seems Eames isn't falling for it. He's got Arthur's back to the wall now and he's hiking his thigh between Arthur's. "I'm not in the mood," Arthur tries again. It comes out more as a groan, and Eames' grin widens a little at the edges.

"Come on, don't pretend like your ego isn't wounded. Like you don't want to take it out on somebody." He squeezes Arthur's cock through his slacks on 'out', and the noise Arthur makes in response is 100% groan.

"Fuck," he breathes out. It only serves to make him a little angrier, that Eames is right and he can read Arthur like the open book he can't help but be. So rather than admit that he'd hit the nail on the head, Arthur shoves Eames back by the shoulders, turns him around and gives him a hard thwack on the ass. Eames jumps at the unexpected contact, but it soon turns into glee.

"I do so like it when you get randy," he smarms, and so Arthur smacks him again. Apparently he doesn't know how to take a hint, because then he's dancing in place and cooing, "A spanking! A spanking!"

Arthur rolls his eyes, unable to help the short bark of laughter that escapes him, but really, this is getting ridiculous. "Yes, yes. And then the oral sex." True to his word, he turns Eames around again, shoves him onto the edge of the bed and starts fumbling with his belt. Eames claps his hands together in delight, bottom lip caught between his teeth. Arthur can think of some _damn_ good uses for that mouth, most of them involving his cock. He kicks his slacks off onto the floor somewhere, followed by his underwear, and by the time he's standing in front of Eames, he's half hard. Eames is staring unabashedly, and Arthur feels his dick jump. "Do it," he orders, and god, it feels _so fucking good_ to say it and watch Eames follow orders. For all he loves the man, sometimes Eames needs to be taught some manners. He moves to brace a hand on Arthur's hip, but Arthur smacks it away. "No hands."

"Yes, love," Eames grins.

"And no more damn talking. Use that mouth for what it's made for."

Eames looks like he's about to disobey, but Arthur gives him a _look_, and he just laces his hands behind his head obediently instead. He starts off slow, touching his tongue to the tip of it, then a casual swipe along the underside. Arthur sucks in a breath at that alone but then Eames grows bolder, wrapping his sinful lips around him and taking him about halfway in. Arthur's eyes roll back in his head as his vision goes fuzzy at the edges. His dick is fucking _throbbing_.

"Fuckshitmore," Arthur hisses. And Eames, bless him, listens. He relaxes his throat and works it around him like a fucking pro. No, like a god. Eames, the benevolent deity of dick-sucking. He even takes it in stride when Arthur abandons restraint and starts thrusting into Eames' throat. Arthur's knees go a little wobbly and Eames' hands are there in an instant to hold him up. Arthur thinks about smacking him away again for breaking the rules, but he decides to allow it because shit, it's not often he gets a blowjob so good he can't even stand upright. Then Eames starts humming, the sound vibrating through his chest and all the way down Arthur's cock and Arthur has to wrap his fingers in Eames' hair and wrench him off because he can feel the tightness in his balls, and no, it's way too soon. Eames' lips leave Arthur's dick with an obscene pop, all slicked with spit and still, still grinning.

"Not to your liking?" he asks, and stretches his jaw.

Arthur _thinks_ he remembers telling Eames not to talk, but he'll let it slide. Eames doesn't need the compliment, but Arthur tells him "On the contrary," anyway. The forger falls back on the bed, looking pleased with himself and idly stroking the outline of his cock through the jeans he insists on wearing on the job. Admittedly they do make Arthur look better by comparison, but right now Arthur wants them off. He communicates this by tugging on the bottoms of them and Eames figures it out right away. His fingers make short work of the button and the zipper, and he practically _writhes_ out of them because he knows exactly how fucking crazy it will drive Arthur. Arthur lets out a growl and starts undoing button after button, waistcoat and shirt and slacks until they're both naked. Eames is just looking at him, every inch of him on display and who the fuck is Arthur not to take advantage of that?

"Hey," Eames hums as Arthur crawls onto the bed and up his body. Arthur kisses him roughly, enjoying the slide of their mouths, then he reaches down to grip Eames' cock. Eames gasps a little and his hips buck, the smile dropping from his face. Arthur pulls back on Eames' foreskin to reveal the slick head.

"What do you want, Eames?" he says, low in his throat, and Eames shudders.

"I..." he groans, but either his mouth or his mind refuses to cooperate when Arthur starts tonguing the slit and the words tumble into incoherence. Arthur likes it when he's the reason Eames can't form a proper sentence, so he does it again. Then he takes Eames' cock in his mouth, sucks at a languid pace until Eames is whining and thrusting mindlessly. Arthur holds his hips down and then lets Eames' cock drop from his mouth, moving lower to nose at his balls. "Shit," Eames manages to say before Arthur pulls one into his mouth. He rolls it on his tongue, and Eames starts squirming. "Arthur, Arthur, I..."

"You what?" Arthur asks, giving Eames' sac one last lick before crawling back up to his face.

"I want."

"What do you want?"

As shaky and turned on as Eames is, he still finds the energy to be mutinous and presses his lips together. Arthur's amused, really, but he can't have that kind of insubordination. So, with a devilish smirk on his face, he runs his tongue along Eames' collarbone, bites at it hard enough to pull a gasp out of him, and then moves down to one nipple. Eames' nipples are famously sensitive and Arthur knows he's playing dirty, but Eames should have known better.

"F-fuck you," Eames stutters. "You can't–"

"Oh, but I think you'll find I can." Arthur chuckles and takes the nipple in his teeth. Eames makes a keening sound Arthur's pretty sure could shatter glass at the right volume, and his body tenses like a bowstring. The bedside table is just within reach, and so Arthur snags the drawer handle and pulls. He knows exactly what it'll do to Eames' psyche, and he's right. He feels Eames' cock twitch against his belly in anticipation.

"Ah... Arthur?"

"Mmm?" He moves to the other nipple now, and Eames starts to say something but it's caught in a whine. "What is it, Eames?" Arthur taunts him. He drags his tongue in a slow circle as Eames' chest heaves.

"Alright!" he gasps out. "Alright, I give up, just... just–"

Arthur lets the nipple go, and Eames falls back on the bed, mouth slack and blinking dazedly. There's a whole mess of precome smeared between them, and Arthur can practically see Eames' pulse through his cock.

"Tell me what you want."

"I want you to fuck me." _Finally_. He says it with as much conviction as when he tells people the sky is green—and they believe him—but this is the truth. His whole body is thrumming with lust, but it's his eyes that really speak for him. He's looking at Arthur steadily, daring him, grinning at him without grinning at all.

"Well alright then." Arthur grins a real grin at him and holds up the bottle of lube. "Ready?"

"Fuck you," Eames says with feeling, and writhes. When Arthur starts prodding at him with slicked fingers, though, he goes still. His eyes fall shut, every inch of his concentration centered around that one point of contact. It's what Arthur loves best about being with Eames—it makes him feel incredible, being the only one who can make Eames' frighteningly competent mind grind to a complete stop. Arthur presses in, one finger, two fingers, three, taking in each sound Eames makes and putting up a valiant effort at not snapping and fucking him into the mattress right away. But even Eames' patience is wearing thin.

"Okay, okay, okay," he repeats like a mantra. "Fucking... Arthur... fuck me, please." And as much as this is all about Arthur giving orders, about Arthur being in control, he can't fucking help himself—though who could blame him? Still, it's best not to look like he's giving in too easily, so he flips Eames over onto his stomach and gives his ass another hard smack.

"_That's_ for being a pain in _my_ ass earlier." And it's a testament to how fucking turned on Eames is that he can't even answer. But he looks contrite, sort of, so Arthur finally relents and presses the tip of his cock to Eames' entrance.

The first slow, delicious inches as he pushes into Eames' body are the best. Eames is shameless about being on his hands and knees for him, and the noises he makes are, for once, totally honest. He's so hot, so tight, so giving. He keeps trying to move, to meet Arthur's painfully languid thrusts, but Arthur tightens his hands around Eames' hips and holds him still. "I call the shots," he grunts, and to prove his point, he thrusts in hard. Eames gasps a little, barely able to manage a nod. The pace Arthur sets then is rough and demanding; he can feel his balls slapping against Eames' and the whole bed shakes—they'll probably get another complaint from the neighbors, and Arthur can't bring himself to care. He reaches around, wraps his hands around Eames' cock and strokes him hard in counterpart to his rhythm, and Eames lets out a moan so sinful and so fucking loud that the whole damn complex surely heard it. So Arthur drags it out of him again. He can feel Eames' breath hitching, his fingers grasping at the sheets like they do when he's close, and Arthur leans in to whisper in his ear. "Don't come yet," he says, "not until I tell you to," and he knows he's being fucking _evil_, but Eames gets off on this shit, the weird fuck, and Arthur thinks that's a moan of agreement. He picks up the pace again, slamming into Eames for all he's worth (which is quite a bit) and Jesus _Christ_ it's so good. He can't stop his fingers from tangling in Eames' hair and yanking, not too hard, but just enough to get him to turn so that he can mash their lips together. Every inch of him is a live wire, tingling and crackling with tension. He can feel his orgasm starting in his toes, rocketing up his spine, gathering behind his balls, and he's already surfing the sexual high of it when he says, "Get ready." Every exhalation out of Eames' mouth comes with a whine, and they're both stretched to the breaking point, and Arthur's surprised he has the wherewithal to whisper, "Now."

Arthur's fairly sure he blacks out for a second or two. He can feel every bit of him shaking apart with the force of his orgasm. His arms give out and he faceplants against Eames' back, knocking them both into the pillows. Arthur blinks his eyes open and he's still seeing stars, and Eames is still gasping, his fingers sliding across the sheets to find any bit of Arthur's sweat-slicked skin that he can reach, twitching in the aftermath. They barely have enough energy to move against each other, but eventually they shift so that they're in each other's arms—Arthur will be damned if he misses out on his cuddle-time.

"Arthur?" Eames gulps after a moment, still breathing hard though his nose. "As you know, I'm not a religious man, but I think... I think I just met God." Arthur raises an eyebrow, but then Eames finishes, "and he felt like your cock in my ass."

Arthur laughs into Eames' chest. He really ought to say something to that, but he can't think of anything that doesn't sound ridiculous, so he waits for Eames' inevitable chatter—he's always talkative after an orgasm.

"So, feeling better about ourselves now, are we?" he asks, true to form.

Arthur thinks about it for a minute. "Yeah, thanks for the session, Dr. Eames." he says finally. "But I think I might still have some... issues that need working out."

This time it's Eames' turn to pause, chewing thoughtfully at his lip. "...'Kay. Give me twenty minutes."


End file.
